Page 83 of My Only

“I can,” she said. “But I won’t.”

I stood there, staring at the door, her words settling into my bones.

I could’ve pushed. I wanted to push. I could’ve begged—wanted to do that too. But instead, I exhaled sharply and turned away, deciding to give her space.

This thing, whatever was happening between us right now… it would pass.

Just like always.

That morning, when I stepped into the kitchen, I wasn’t sure if I’d actually see her.

But there she was.

And the sight of her made me falter in my step.

She stood at the coffee bar, stirring honey into her coffee, her head slightly bowed, deep in thought. When she lifted her gaze just enough to glance at me, she did a double take, like she hadn’t expected to see me either.

The morning sun filtered in through the skylight, casting golden light over her. My Langston U track team tee hung off her frame, oversized, paired with her patterned sleep shorts that peeked out from beneath the hem. Even in all her quiet, even in all this distance between us, my wife was so damn beautiful.

She dropped her gaze to her mug.

“Morning,” I said as I set my laptop bag on the counter.

No response.

Not even a glance my way.

Her delicate fingers reached for the milk carton, tilting it just enough to pour a splash into her coffee.

Something about the way she moved—intentional, distant—made me wonder if she was still mad at me from two nights ago… or if she was simply being dramatic.

I almost shook the thought away. No, this wasn’t our first fight. Wasn’t our first time dealing with the silent treatment. But this? This was different.

We’d had one other fight worse than this, not long ago. One I’ll never forget. But even then, she didn’t stay away for two nights straight.

The only other time she’d slept in the guest bedroom, it hadn’t lasted long. I couldn’t take it. Knowing she was just downstairs, under the same roof but feeling like miles away?

I told myself never again.

And yet… here we were.

This time, she wasn’t just distant. She was shutting me out.

Ayla had never done that before.

“You’re not gonna say good morning back?” I asked, closing the space between us.

Silence.

She just kept stirring her coffee, eyes trained on the dark liquid swirling in her mug.

The tension in the kitchen was thick enough to choke on. Our space, once filled with warmth and laughter, now sat heavy with unspoken words.

Ayla turned, moving around me with ease, opening the fridge to return the milk. I let out a scoffing laugh, shaking my head.

“A,” I called out as she closed the door.

Nothing.

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